


Not With A Whimper, But With A Bloodshedding

by luceskywalker



Series: Things Written In Class That Actually Aren't Fanfiction [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dartmoor, Death, Gen, Halloween, Historical Inaccuracy, Horror, Misquotes, Samhain, Serial Killers, Sorry Not Sorry, Sorry TS Eliot, TW: Blood, TW: Violence, Triggers, Victorian England, Violence, things I am immensely proud of, things written in class that actually aren't fanfiction, things written in one go, things written on my iPad, this is what happens when I watch Hannibal before class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 17:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceskywalker/pseuds/luceskywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guests had never seen so much blood in their lives. It seeped slowly across the floor, like a storm cloud blowing in from the west, thick and dark and in stark contrast to the black and white tiles.</p><p>Four dead bodies already, and the party had only just begun!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With A Whimper, But With A Bloodshedding

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote in class that I was (and continue to be) very, very proud of. I read it out in class and got APPLAUSE. It was the only time that happened all semester, so I feel pretty good about this piece.
> 
> I'd watched a particularly gruesome episode of NBC Hannibal the night before I had this class, which partly inspired this. It was written as a response to this prompt from the lecturer: "Look at sense of creating immediate impact. Central element is either a dangerous relationship between two people or a past event that has become dangerous."

The guests had never seen so much blood in their lives. It seeped slowly across the floor, like a storm cloud blowing in from the west, thick and dark and in stark contrast to the black and white tiles. The blood flowed out from one body laying a little way up the stairs, down each step into a greater lake which covered half of the entrance hall floor, and was added to by the draining lifeblood of three other bodies scattered around the edge of the room. Four dead bodies already, and the party had only just begun! 

Sir Joseph Harrington smiled at his guests in their marvellous red and black costumes as they gaped at the magnificent decorations. He even nodded courteously to that swine McAllister, who was two steps away from taking away the estate that had been in the Harrington family since before the other man's earliest ancestors had even left Scotland. But he wouldn't dwell on that now. That would be fixed all in good time. The party was about to begin, and he had host duties to fulfil. His invitation had said "come to the Manor, for a night you will never forget!", and by God, he intended to fulfil that promise if it was the last thing he did.

Sir Harrington's "Samhain Spectacular" was always the highlight of the year in the village of Red Lake, and was a tradition going back many centuries. Red Lake was located on the border of the famous Devonshire moors and so named for the small body of water that turned red at a certain moment at sunset on a certain day - the anniversary, locals said, of a terrible slaughter that occurred in the village in Roman times. The legend told that the lake was made when so many villagers were killed by a tyrannical Roman general that the village and surrounding areas were flooded with their blood, and when it soaked into the earth all that remained was the small catchment in the grounds of the general's estate, which went on to give the village its name.

That was nonsense, of course. The red colour was simply caused by the chemical composition of the lake, or some such other scientific thing. Sir Harrington was not a man of science and had little time for the exact details of the Red Lake phenomenon. He, like the other villagers, much preferred the legend. It added a sense of romance to the town, much like Stoker's novel had given to Transylvania with its tale of creatures of the night. His Spectaculars were simply a way of keeping that Romance alive, but all good things must come to an end and this would be the last, as this was his last month in the Manor. The village's waning economy was taking its toll on everyone and Sir Joseph could no longer afford to maintain the Manor and its surrounding property, but he was not going to give this house up without a fight. He was going to make sure that the dark romance of Red Lake would endure, and that everyone would know the name Harrington unto the end of the Empire and beyond. 

He let his guests wander around the entrance hall, marvelling at the quality of the blood on the floor, and listened to their hushed conversations with a small, private smile.

"Barty! Come and have a closer look at the blood! It looks so real! It even smells like iron. How do you think he did it?"

"It must be pigs' blood, my dear. Not even the best theatre prop makers in London could make false blood of such high quality. Yes, yes, it must be real."

Sir Joseph's smile widened. Yes, the blood _must_ be real, mustn't it? Of course it was. Sir Joseph was a man of immense reputation and he always did things correctly.

"I was not aware that Sir Joseph kept pigs."

"He does not, Amelia, but surely a man of his means can afford to buy some just for this purpose. At any rate, the feast tonight is roast pork, I believe. I'm afraid the scent is quite turning my stomach. Let us go and explore some more."

The couple drifted away to join some more guests by one of the bodies, where similar marvelling over the waxworks took place. How perfectly lifelike like they were! And didn't this one bear a remarkable likeness to Cropley, the butler? And over there, that one looks like Anderson, the chef! How amusing to give them the night off so that Sir Joseph could fool us into thinking they were dead! Ha ha ha!

Even McAllister was entranced by the show, and turned admiring eyes on his host. Sir Joseph raised his glass to the other man in salute.  
The fools suspected nothing. Of course they didn't.

Draining his glass and calling his guests to order, Sir Joseph summoned them to the foot of the stairs where with a flourish he spun a tale of the terrors that lie on the upper floors, havoc wreaked by the ghost of the murderous Roman general, out to get revenge on the townsfolk. The guests all shrieked with delight at the prospect, and broke out into excited murmurs when he promised that there would be more bodies to come as the night drew on. He looked at the number of guests in front of him. Oh yes. There would be many, many more bodies.

Sir Joseph decided that he would call it the work of the Red Lake Ripper. Yes. And The Red Lake Ripper's victims would haunt Harrington Manor forever.

McAllister may have bought the estate, but it would never be his.


End file.
